The Illusion of Freedom
by Skate-815
Summary: Set during the Johari Window, Olivia comforts Peter as he deals with the fact that he just killed a man. One shot. Bolivia, as usual.


**Another one shot from me.**

**What if TMFTOS wasn't the first time Peter tried to run this season? Set during the Johari Window.**

Peter gave an involuntary shiver as he stood alone in the cool night air, wearing nothing warmer than a flimsy pullover. His keys- or rather, Olivia's- were clutched tightly in his palm and he subconsciously played with them, glad for their quiet jangle that penetrated the otherwise all consuming silence. He could sit in the car. Or he could pace the hotel reception. He really should go _somewhere_ because it was too damn cold for coherent thought, but right now a step in either direction seemed like more of a decision than he was prepared to make.

He just knew that if he were to climb into the car, the keys would be in the ignition before he could stop himself and he'd be running again for the first time in two years. On the other hand, if he went back inside, he wouldn't be able to prevent himself from taking the elevator up two floors and letting himself into his hotel room. And of course, once he actually saw Walter again, he would be too ashamed to do anything but stay.

He hadn't tried to sleep yet because he knew that any attempt would be futile. Rest didn't come easily for him at the best of times and if he did manage to let go enough for slumber to take him, he was sure to be haunted by nightmares that were so terrifying and vivid that they'd put his usual restless nights to shame.

He'd killed a man. Or a mutant. Either way you looked at it, he'd taken a life just under four hours ago and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since. Contrary to Olivia's belief, it hadn't been his first, second or even third time, but somehow this kill seemed to weigh on him more than any other. For instance, in a way he'd murdered Jones. A few short months ago, he shut the portal too late and sliced him in half in the process, but he'd been able to take comfort in the fact that Jones was an evil son of a bitch who deserved everything he got for using Olivia in the way he did. And it had just been when that excuse was beginning to wear thin, and the self depreciating disgust had begun to seep in when he'd learnt of Olivia's car crash in New York and everything else had ceased to matter.

He loved her. The realisation was not a new one (thoughts of this calibre were far from a recent development), but he still managed to feel a degree of surprise every damn time he realised that his urge to pull her into his arms and to at least attempt to shield her from the world was even greater than his physical desire for her. And make no mistake, his desire for her for strong indeed. More than anything, he wanted to go to her door, wake her and beg her to distract him in any way she could think of. Right now, he would feel an absurd, unshakable gratitude for a simple hug, never mind anything more.

His first kill had been in self defence. He was being pursued by a henchman who looked as if he'd stepped straight out of a James Bond movie, and by a sheer mix of luck and cunning, he'd managed to claim the weapon as his own. But he knew the goon hadn't come alone, and to just walk away would have been like signing his own death sentence. So he'd shot the guy in the leg. It had been a calculated risk, but he'd been so sure that someone would come looking for them both soon that he hadn't so much as glanced backwards as he ran for the nearest train station. He'd only learnt three weeks later, when he thought to google the incident, that the guy had bled out and died over the period of a few agonizing days.

He'd thrown himself into a month long drinking binge after that. The guilt had ate at him and nearly destroyed him completely. It would have done, in fact, if it wasn't for Tess.

The second kill was in defence of that very same woman, and he'd coped well enough- a few days of misery and couple of rounds of comfort sex and he'd been back to normal. The third time- Jones- had barely fazed him. Now on number four, it felt like the first time all over again. He supposed it was part of the better man syndrome that Olivia had inflicted him with, but whatever the reason, he felt absolutely dreadful.

This one had been to save her, and Walter and yes, of course, himself. But he could have fired a warning shot; could have just stayed down until the guy got close enough for him to take a less lethal shot; could have done _something_ differently. With a startling shame, he found himself wishing that he had been the one who had gotten knocked out and Olivia could have protected him instead. She could have been the one to add that poor thing to her death toll, instead of him. While another kill to her surely wouldn't be nothing, it wouldn't rip her apart like it was him.

He looked longingly at the car. If he left now, he'd have six hours before anyone so much as noticed he wasn't in his room. He hadn't packed anything- the majority of his possessions were back in Boston anyway- but maybe that would be exactly what he needed. A fresh start always did him good. But everything, or to be more accurate, _everyone_ he loved was in that building behind him. Walter, Olivia, hell he even loved Astrid in a faint, sisterly way.

"Hey" he'd been so wrapped up in his inner turmoil that he hadn't heard Olivia's approach.

"I was just…" he grappled with the truth, failed to come up with a convincing lie and so said nothing further.

"I know" her voice held neither absolution nor condemnation. He glanced towards her, and then decided to keep looking as an afterthought. It felt infinitely easier than staring at the hotel or the car. She reached out towards him, her fingers brushing against his just long enough for her to remove her keys from his grasp. Normally her touch held the power to calm him or to thrill him, but right now he felt numb and the only thing that crossed his mind was that she was either very warm, or he was very cold.

"Come on." She began to walk back towards the hotel and while in general he would follow her anywhere, tonight his body just didn't seem to be complying.

"I…" he still didn't know where to start but he knew that if he went inside with her she would ask him to stay in some round-a-bout fashion that would just, _just_ be concrete enough to make him swear he'd never leave her. And right now he'd rather pretend he was still capable of walking away from it all.

"Or we could go for a drive" she suggested, somehow knowing exactly what he needed to hear. He simply nodded, and before he knew it, he was belted in and she was driving with no particular destination in mind.

* * *

They travelled in silence. He knew that Olivia was no doubt formulating a plan; trying to think of some way of getting him to stay, and he quite simply couldn't keep his eyes off her. Amidst all of the self hatred, stupid thoughts were surfacing- ones that shouldn't be entertained so late at night.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be able to tell her that he loved her without her running scared. And worst of all, there was a part of him that thought it would be okay to do all of these things, because they were driving in circles around a small town with the moonlight filtering in through the windows, and nothing quite felt real. Maybe tonight would be the time that it would finally feel right to bypass all of their walls and rules.

It was when they eventually began to run low on fuel that Olivia pulled into a car park and their easy quiet grew uncomfortable as she killed the engine.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he wanted so many things that it made his head spin but actually putting words to the dull emptiness inside him felt like an impossible task. What he really wanted was the illusion of freedom. He needed to be able to pretend that whatever happened next was his choice, but she'd held all the cards since the day they'd met, and he doubted that tonight could change that.

"He ran us off the road. He shot first. He could just as easily have killed me" he rhymed off his wretched little list of excuses that had been floating around his mind for hours now. If he'd been sitting in the driver's seat he would have clenched his hand around the steering wheel, but as it was, he had to settle for fisting his hands on his knees instead.

"But you did kill him, Peter" she reminded him, "And I'm glad you did. You saved my life." He'd known that, of course, but the image of her cold dead body in that hospital bed came rushing back to him, and the knowledge that he'd prevented that from happening again seeped a little life back into him.

"I don't know how you do this everyday." He confessed, sighing a little.

"I don't sleep much," she admitted, "But having someone who understands you always helps. John always helped." The last part conjured up a combination of sadness, pity and a painful jealousy that tugged at his heart. He looked away, pretending to watch a bird through the window, and she spoke a little louder, as if to compensate,

"You help me too."

"Me?" he failed to conceal his surprise, a pathetic hopefulness entering his tone.

"Yeah. I don't know what it is about you, but it just seems like you get me. More than any other partner I've ever had, I suppose." It didn't sound like the guilty confession that a similar sentiment from him would have come out like. He itched to say something back, but everything he could come up with either held too much meaning, or not enough at all.

"How long were you out there for?" she asked after a few moments. He took time to consider… an hour? More? Less? He had to admit, he didn't really know.

"A while" was the best he could come up with. The gentle way that she was phrasing her questions was making him feel all the more fragile and he didn't need that right now. So he put on his best poker face, flashed her a tired, yet grateful, honest smile and spoke sincerely,

"It's getting late, Liv. We should probably head back." Her weariness was practically rolling off her, and he knew she wouldn't need much convincing. Still, tilting her head a little, she spoke, as if to ease her own conscience.

"You think you'll be able to sleep?"

"I'll be fine" he dodged, smiling a little more brightly to distract her from his partial answer, and although she frowned, it seemed to work. Half satisfied, half disappointed, he shut his eyes and leant back against the headrest, trying to picture anything but that dead man's body.

* * *

They returned to the hotel, parked the car and entered through the double doors in silence. There still remained a little niggling voice that insisted on reminding him he could still run once they parted ways that night, but the more sensible part of him already knew that leaving now really wasn't an option. He stood outside her door like a perfect gentleman, telling himself he was just waiting to make sure she got inside before he returned to his own cold, empty bedroom. However, in reality, part of him was desperate for any excuse to stay near her for a while longer- a sentiment she seemed to share, for the second the door swung open, she spoke in a measured tone.

"I'm not tired. You could come in for a while, if you want?" It was a blatant lie. He knew that she didn't get enough sleep at the best of times, and he could sense her exhaustion from here. To accept her polite offer would be selfish, but the cold ache within him was yet to subside enough for him to do the decent thing, so he gave a simple shrug.

"Okay."

Obviously having learnt her lesson from the car, she immediately flicked on the TV to create some background noise, but turned it down so low that he could barely make out the women in the infomercials. He sat on the sofa bed that she had yet to pull out, but she hovered above him, looking at a loss as to what to do next.

"Drink?" she finally asked, and although he would love one, he knew that once he started drinking he really would begin to cry and that was something that neither of them needed.

"No." he shook his head, before adding as an afterthought, "Thank you." Looking as if she was at a loose end, she sat down beside him, staring firmly at the screen in front of them. Although he would usually take furtive glances in her direction, tonight he felt able to regard her openly, knowing that they had already surpassed the limits that normally surrounded their relationship. He watched as she stifled a yawn, and spoke a little more sternly than he should have,

"You shouldn't sit up all night just because I can't sleep." She looked towards him calmly, the light from the television illuminating her in a strange way.

"You sat with me in the hospital, didn't you?" It wasn't a real question- she obviously already knew that from the moment she sat up in her bed speaking rapid Greek to the second she opened her eyes again a full twenty four hours later, he left her side a grand total of three times. And even then, it was only to use the bathroom and to stock up on vending machine food. He took a second to wonder who would have told her something like that, before he dismissed it as unimportant.

"That's different." He argued. He'd just gotten her back from the very brink of death, after all. He couldn't have slept if he'd tried.

"Not really." She was looking at him stubbornly, and any other day he would have backed down and allowed her to think that she'd won, but he was just so sick of censoring himself that he couldn't help but add something, just because he knew it would throw her off balance.

"That was the worst day of my life" as predicted, she did nothing but blink at him. She was obviously turning his words over in her mind, twisting them and searching for a way of removing all of the dangerous implications.

"Because I woke up?" She sounded almost panicked, but it was a horrible attempt at a joke, and he didn't even attempt to humour her.

"Olivia." The lone word was an admonishment, and she dropped her gaze, a pink tinge entering her cheeks.

"Sorry."

"It was the worst day of my life, because just when I thought you were safe at home, you decide to crash your car in an entirely different state" he swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that had been looming ever since their own collision with a tree earlier that night, "And when you were in that hospital bed all I could think of was how I'd never even told you…" Even now the words caught in his throat, but this had been building since the day he'd happened to catch her eye across the lab and the simple, romantic, clichéd truth had just hit him. He loved her, and there had been too many near death experiences to justify holding off telling her any longer.

"Peter" now it was her turn to use his name to quiet him, "Tonight's not the night for you to be talking like this." It was a deflection and he knew it. John had damaged her so much that she was afraid to let anyone in and although he knew that she had to feel something for him, she would always be too terrified to take the next step. And now, it seemed that after everything that had happened that night, it was _that_ heartbreaking comprehension that finally pushed him over the edge, releasing his tears.

He turned his head, but she had either been expecting this, or he looked away a fraction of a second too late, for at once one of those slender little hands had placed itself on his neck; the other falling onto his cheek, pulling him towards her. He allowed her to guide him so that he was half sitting, half lying on top of her, his head resting against her chest, just north of her breasts.

"Hey, it's okay" she mumbled, her hands roaming helplessly over him, before one settled on his chest, the other running through his hair, "It gets better. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it will" she wilfully refused to recognise herself as the cause of this latest round of misery, but as weak as he was, he didn't dare correct her for fear of her pushing him away now. He in fact embraced this chance to be so openly devastated in front of her, because as much as this latest murder was weighing on him, right now all he could think about was her. It hadn't been a traditional confession, but he'd attempted to hand her his heart and she'd ducked the matter with her usual excuses and deliberate obliviousness.

So he didn't even attempt to hold back his emotions and instead focused on the feeling of her hands on his body, and how it was a good thing that she seemed determined to be his friend tonight, even though the knowledge that might never be more was killing him.

* * *

There seemed to be very little left to say when his tears finally subsided. At that point, her hands had long since ceased their movements, and a slight turn of his head confirmed to him that she had indeed fallen asleep. Looking at her now, he felt the usual rush of affection for her, refusing to blame her for succumbing while he remained wide awake as ever. They'd both had a long day, and it was a little before two, after all.

He reluctantly untangled himself from her and sat up. Despite her best efforts, she had been right- he knew there was no chance in hell that sleep would find him tonight, but at least now he knew deep within himself that he wouldn't be walking away from her, tonight or ever. He felt a strange sort of guilt for sneaking back to his own room, even though he knew she would be uncomfortable and stiff in the morning if he did spend the night sleeplessly on top of her, and so he scrawled a note on the hotel stationary. Something simple.

_Thought you'd sleep better if you had the couch to yourself. Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I'm just next door._

_Peter._

He had considered signing it _L__ove Peter_ but despite the fact he had come so close to telling her tonight, he knew for the sake of their working relationship and indeed his own sanity it would be wise to let the matter drop for now. He would give it three more months; or perhaps less if incidents like this kept popping up; and then he would pawn Walter off on Astrid, take her for a nice candlelit dinner and force her through sheer charm to listen to what he had to say. Either that or he would crack under the pressure of it all and just kiss her one moonlit night. Quite frankly, he'd take any opportunity he could get.

He placed his note on the coffee table beside the sofa, flicked off the TV and after a brief search, laid the only blanket he could find over her. Knowing he could procrastinate no longer, he pressed a kiss to her cheek on impulse before heading for the door, only allowing one thought to surface in his mind.

Coffee. If he wanted to avoid resembling a zombie tomorrow morning, he most definitely required coffee.

* * *

**I decided to keep things canon, so avoided having them kiss.**

**What did you all think?**


End file.
